16
I pawned earrings with Faustilla for 2 denarii. She has deducted an ass a month in interest
The line at the well stretches along the street. Not that anyone is paying much attention to waiting their turn. Amara and Dido don’t bother to shove ahead with the rest, loitering in the late morning sunshine instead. It’s not the most restful place to stop. Hammering, banging and shouting rings out from one of the grander houses nearby. It has been dilapidated for as long as Amara can remember, the owners killed in a terrible earthquake, or so Victoria told her. Somebody new must have bought it, decided to spend their money on decking it out like a palace. One of the team of builders leans out from his ladder, whistling at her and Dido. They ignore him. He won’t be buying a woman for hours. Barely worth their notice.
“Everyone liked the gold,” Dido says, raising her voice to be heard. “They all used it last night, didn’t they?”
“Beronice certainly did,” Amara says, remembering the way Beronice had smeared it copiously around her eyes, and her fury when Victoria laughed at her. That’s what men in this stupid town expect Egyptian women to look like! Beronice had insisted, face sparkling like a temple statue. Amara cannot imagine how small Pompeii must feel to Beronice after growing up in a great city like Alexandria, although as a slave, perhaps she never saw much more than the house where she worked. Victoria and Cressa had shared the new pot too, but Amara suspects it will take more than gold paste to smooth over the others’ envy. The shift in power to the Wolf Den’s newest women has unsettled everyone. “Felix will want us to practise for Cornelius today,” she says. “We have to come up with some other songs.”
“We could always ask Salvius for help,” Dido says.
“I wouldn’t know where to find him. Do you think Nicandrus might know?”
“He runs the ironmonger’s, the one near Modestus’s bakery. I think he owns it. I spent time with Priscus that night when you were talking to Menander. He told me where they both work.”
Amara feels a sharp tap on her back and spins round, angry, expecting it to be the builder come down from the ladder to try his luck. A young girl steps back in alarm, clutching an enormous bucket to her hip.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says. “But aren’t you from the Wolf Den? I’m sure I’ve seen you both at The Elephant before.”
Amara looks at her. She sees eyes smudged with blue and shoulders stooped with exhaustion. A memory surfaces. The same slight girl scurrying between customers at The Elephant, a nervous smile on her face. “Yes. You’re the waitress, aren’t you?”
“Pitane,” says the girl. “I don’t just wait tables though.”
“No.” Amara remembers Victoria’s taunt to Drauca, about the customers she has to service as well as serve. She turns away, not wanting to think about her former rival or remember her suffering.
“It must be hard work,” Dido says kindly. “The Elephant is always so busy. Have you got friends there?”
“Martha. She was my friend. But she died in childbirth. Hazard of the job, isn’t it?” Pitane is staring at them both, desperation in her face, willing them to understand. “I guess you must both know all about that, about how to avoid it. Or how to…” She trails off.
End it, Amara thinks. “Is it avoiding, you want to ask about?” Pitane shakes her head. Amara glances down at the girl’s waist, taking in her thin figure. “There’s a woman you can see. But don’t wait too long.”
“You don’t keep anything yourselves?”
“The herbs have to be fresh.”
“Amara,” Dido is shaking her head. “Not here.”
“I don’t have the money.” Pitane looks disappointed. “I thought you might keep the herbs, that you might spare me some, let me pay you back over time.”
“But why? Wouldn’t your master be pleased?” Amara says. “They’re usually happy to have home-grown slaves.”
“Martha took three days to die,” Pitane says. Amara and Dido exchange glances. Every woman understands the danger, the horror that childbirth can bring.
They have missed their place in the queue, but none of the three women rush to push back in. “If it’s money you need,” Amara says. “Then we might be able to help. But you have to be very sure you can pay it back.”
On their walk to the ironmonger’s Dido does not mention the deal Amara has just done, does not ask her whether Marcella has paid her debt yet, or when it’s due. But Amara can feel her palms sweating at the thought. She tells herself that there’s still time for Marcella to deliver, her debt isn’t late yet. And perhaps finding Pitane will incline Felix to patience.
They pass the bakery and stop at the ironmonger’s, listening to the clang of metalwork inside. “Do you think Salvius will even remember us?” Dido says.
“How many beautiful singers do you imagine he meets?” Amara replies, shifting the lyre higher in her arms, covering her nerves with bravado. It had been difficult to wrest the instrument from Paris. They had to pretend their music lesson was already arranged. No doubt he will drop them in it with Felix if the visit proves a failure. “Of course he will remember.”
They walk past the front counter where a slave is busy with customers and head deeper inside. The flute player is at the back supervising an apprentice, helping him fashion a lamp stand, holding it steady while the boy hammers at the legs and giving the odd word of encouragement. He is as Amara remembers, the same kind manner and greying hair. The two women wait, not wanting to disturb him.
When Salvius looks up, she can see him take a moment to place them, but then he smiles. “This is unexpected,” he says. “The lovely singing sparrows. What can I do for you?”
“We wanted to ask a favour.” Amara holds up the lyre as an explanation, hoping to pique his curiosity.
Salvius walks over, wiping oil from his hands onto his leather apron. “If you’re looking for an accompanist, I only play the flute.”
“I would be playing,” Amara says. “We were hoping you might teach us some tunes.”
“We would pay for your time,” Dido adds.
“Flavius,” he calls to his apprentice. “Keep working on the feet, please. Just how I showed you.” He turns back to the two women. “Let’s talk.”
They follow him, climbing the narrow wooden stairway to the floor above. “I’m not much of a musician,” he says. “You might be disappointed. Where will you be playing?”
Salvius’s living room is painted in warm shades of yellow. A procession of swans fly from panel to panel and tiny larks are painted around the skirting. He sits on a bench, inviting them to take the one opposite. “It’s a party, much grander than anything at The Sparrow,” Amara says. “On the first day of the Floralia. We were thinking of setting poetry to some popular tunes.”
“Mixing high and low?” Salvius asks.
“Yes,” Dido nods.
“Sounds fun. But what will you pay me? Or should I ask how will you pay me.”
“That depends what you would prefer.” Amara slips her toga off one shoulder, not far enough to show much but enough to make her point. She hopes he will take the bait. Salvius is not an unattractive man, but her reason for wanting him has little to do with desire and everything to do with saving money.
“Deferred payment would suit me best,” Salvius replies. “An evening or two of your company, here, at my house.” He nods at Dido. “I will invite Priscus.”
Amara has no idea how Felix will react to this proposal, evenings are their most lucrative hours, but before she can suggest seeking their master’s approval, Dido answers. “We would be delighted.”